


Human

by ijitgirl



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, First fic ever ayyyyyy, Kinda, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Well - Freeform, i just needed to get this out there, idunno, post-mountain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22966519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijitgirl/pseuds/ijitgirl
Summary: Geralt needs a nap.It may or may not have anything to do with the bard in the corner crooning about a witcher battling a sea beast in the most wildly inaccurate manner Geralt has ever heard.It definitely does not have to do with the fact that the witcher in the song is not him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 13
Kudos: 234





	Human

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer! Yen and Triss (and Eskel) are barely in this, but I don't know how tagging works, so sorry if you came for them cause they're only here for a second. And I mean I don't own anything.

Geralt needs a nap.

Roach huffs at him as he tightens her girth strap a little harder than strictly necessary, but who can really blame him? They had been traveling hard lately, so hard that he had thought it might be safe to stay the night at an actual inn, with an actual stable for Roach and a bed for him.

He should have known better.

Fucking Destiny.

He had barely gotten through the door of what had _seemed_ like a reputable inn before he had turned on his heel and walked back out into the night. To be fair, it probably was a nice enough inn, especially since it had enough pull with the townspeople to hire a bard. A no-good, lousy, warbling infant of a bard. A bard that was playing _the_ song. Jaskier’s song. About a witcher.

But not the White Wolf of Rivia.

Geralt wishes he could let himself be convinced, by Yennefer or even Triss, that Jaskier hadn’t written the epic. Because it was an epic. Praising its _hero_ at every turn, describing in great and _undoubtedly_ wildly embellished detail the prowess and skill of Mamoa, a witcher he had met in passing once.

He finishes tacking up Roach with more care. After all, he’s not running from anyone. Or anything.

Dammit, Roach, he’s _not_.

Geralt mounts up with a grunt and urges her on into the night. Maybe if they’re lucky when they make it to the next town the song won’t have spread there yet.

-

It has.

It’s in that town, and the next, and by then Geralt is almost willing to endure it if it means he can have a hot meal and a bath to come back to after a monster hunt. People are still wary of him, but they don’t seem afraid anymore, just cautious.

Geralt purposely does not remember Jaskier’s promise to fix his tattered reputation every time he notices this.

He does not think of Jaskier at all.

He does not catch himself perking up when he hears a lute, only for his ears to immediately determine it isn’t Jaskier playing the instrument.

He does not catch himself looking for the bard’s brightly colored doublet when he breaks camp in the mornings.

He does not dream of blue eyes and soft words.

Dammit, Roach, he _doesn’t_.

-

It’s almost winter.

Geralt can’t decide if he’s relieved or disappointed to be returning to Kaer Morhen, but he goes anyway.

He’s thought about it before. Not going back to join the remaining witchers.

It happens sometimes, witchers spending the winter away from the Kaer. Although the most common reason for not showing up is still death.

He may have thought about it more often when returning to the mountain would have meant leaving Jaskier. But then, he would remind himself, this is exactly why he needs to go. Witchers don’t have feelings. He has always just been…defective. And every spring he leaves assured of the fact, at least until he would inevitably run into Jaskier, and the bard flashed him a smile that melted the walls he’d spent the whole winter building up like they were made of fresh snow.

Geralt could never figure out how Jaskier would always find him, but he had, year after year, until it was practically tradition.

Geralt would be prepping for a monster hunt, or having a drink in a run-down tavern and along he would come, as vibrant and alive and pleased to come across the witcher as he was withdrawn and disappointed when they’d parted ways.

Geralt does not think of Jaskier in the spring more than usual. Every chirping lark does not remind him of the bard’s incessant chatter, and every blooming dandelion does not provide a welcome distracting flash of color in an otherwise boring world.

Dammit, Roach, they _don’t_.

-

Geralt hears the lute as soon as he crossed into the Kaer proper, but he’s spent so long _not_ listening for Jaskier that he doesn’t realize he’s found him until it’s too late, and Jaskier is making an excuse (something about a cat? On a stove?), and running out another door. The small crowd, if it could be called that, of other witchers try briefly to entice him back, but Jaskier has always been faster than people expected.

One of the witchers, in his disappointment, turns to face the door, muttering about unwelcome disturbances, and Geralt feels his blood run cold even as he murmurs his greetings, because he recognizes the shaggy hair and kraken medallion winking at him from a set of armor not entirely unlike his own.

Mamoa, the Great Shark. A witcher who hunted mostly on the west coast of the Continent. A witcher who had a reputation for being good with his hands…at a great many things. A witcher who had, most recently, been rebranded by a popular drinking song into something of a legend for his slaying of a great sea beast that had been terrifying a coastal village.

Mamoa was there.

 _Jaskier_ was there.

Dammit, Yennefer, he had known it was Jaskier’s song.

-

Geralt spends much of the winter training on his own, and doing his best to stay out of everyone’s way.

He doesn’t know why Mamoa had decided to winter so far inland, instead of his at own Kaer. But witchers don’t have feelings, so he doesn’t question it, and it definitely doesn’t bother him that he did.

Not at all.

Geralt doesn’t realize that he hasn’t really spoken to anyone until Eskel gets him drunk.

He doesn’t know why he agrees, but he and Eskel have always had a sort of bond, and _fuck_ if it hadn’t been a while since he let himself enjoy something.

It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he hasn’t seen Jaskier since that first night, despite still being able to hear him in the Kaer, and unquestionably nothing to do with the fact he’s usually accompanied by Mamoa.

Eskel gets the truth out of him anyway.

How he has regrets.

How he has nightmares.

How he has _feelings_.

And how many of those feelings revolve around a certain talented, loving, beautiful bard.

A bard who, from the sound of it, is currently _very_ willingly receiving Mamoa’s attentions for the night.

Just as he has almost every night since Geralt arrived.

Eskel doesn’t day much, but he does keep the supply of ale so plentiful that, for the first time in many months, Geralt sleeps through the night, despite the heart he doesn’t have ripping itself to shreds with every cry the thick walls can’t quite smother.

-

When the spring thaw comes, Geralt has still not spoken to Jaskier, but he has reconnected with those witchers he was on civil terms with the prior year.

He and Roach descend the mountain by themselves.

Blue eyes swimming in hurt drown him every night.

-

It’s late summer, almost fall, when Geralt finds himself leading Roach towards the sea.

There is absolutely a good reason for their heading. There have been rumors flying around about creatures with horns and claws and teeth and even though that could be any number of things he still finds himself taking the job.

He absolutely does not agree because knowing Jaskier’s approximate location has only exacerbated his night terrors. Instead of drowning in his eyes, he sees himself coming across a broken body in a field, or a forest, or a tavern. One without any eyes at all, but with the strong fingers and unmistakable scars of his bard.

The bard he was always too late, too stubborn, or too far away to save.

He dispatches the nest of monsters after determining they’ve been feasting on travelers who stray from the main path, and decides to stay on it.

Geralt tells himself this is to make sure there are no other nests infesting the lands nearby.

He does not acknowledge to Roach how close they pass to one of Mamoa’s rumored haunts.

-

It doesn’t matter anyway, since he doesn’t enter the town.

Not after his ears pick out the song being sung loudly in one of the taverns.

He urges her away before he has time to notice Mamoa’s distinctive voice is not joined by Jaskier’s.

-

Yennefer finds him, sometimes, when Triss asks after him.

She doesn’t listen as well as Eskel had, but she does. She just takes more breaks to throw things, and confiscates his ale to down it herself, and threatens to castrate him for saying such things to someone anyone could tell was madly in love with him. Triss just pats his shoulder solemnly.

Hearing her speak the truth shakes his resolve, but he won’t be swayed from his heading.

Dammit, Yennefer, he _can’t_.

In the end, she understands.

-

He works odd jobs he finds along the path.

Once he reaches the coast he and Roach stop to rest for a couple days before heading south.

The coin from the last job would have been enough for room and board in a nice inn, but Geralt has gone longer without such luxuries, as has Roach, and he decides to stretch it a little further and stay away from people who may not take kindly to having a strange witcher in their towns and villages.

The Path is pulling him, and the tug is getting stronger. Maybe, he thinks, maybe Destiny is calling to him once more. Geralt knows what…who he is searching for, but can’t let himself dare to hope he might find him.

The waves that crash against the shore calm his ears and the wind-carried salt all but blinds his nose, but Geralt will never admit to being surprised.

Dammit, Roach, he _wasn’t_.

But he still stops short in something like alarm at the sight of the man on the cliff.

Fucking Destiny.

-

Geralt may be wrong, but when he looks at Jaskier again, really looks at him, he notices the faintest strands of silver weaving their way through his hair. He notices the lines around his eyes and mouth are a little deeper. He notices that these and other signs of the passing of time do nothing to detract from his beauty.

Dammit, Roach, he _notices_.

And he realizes.

Realizes that Jaskier is mortal, and he may not get such an opportunity again.

Realizes what a miracle it is that he’s been gifted this chance at all after he wasted an entire winter with Jaskier less than a fathom away.

Realizes that when he looks at Jaskier the feelings that fill him do not make him defective. They make him human.

 _Jaskier_ makes him human.

And humans make mistakes.

He drops to his knees before Jaskier and uses his words.

It’s sloppy, and slow, and stilted, but he tells him everything.

The words don’t spill out of him, they never have. Not since before the experiments, the loss, the _pain_. But they come, they come for Jaskier, who has proved himself an extremely patient and persistent travelling companion over the years, when properly motivated.

He seems properly motivated now, his gaze never dropping from Geralt’s as he tries to use the words that he so often turned to for violence or snark to instead reveal the heart of a man utterly, desolately, wretchedly _sorry_. Jaskier drinks in the trickle of words with the wide eyes of a man dying of thirst.

And eternity later, Jaskier’s musical voice drifts to him on the breeze, so quiet Geralt would think this was the dream that begins a nightmare if the bard hadn’t paired it with a soft touch to his cheek. His words are more lyrical than Geralt could ever conjure, and his eyes are softer than Geralt could have ever hoped, and Geralt promises him the world.

He realizes he will die before he breaks this vow.

-

Geralt needs a nap

Roach huffs from under him as he straightens awkwardly in the saddle, eyeing his companion sourly. He still doesn’t understand how Jaskier handles a lack of sleep better than a witcher, let alone how he’s riding his horse at all after their nighttime activities. But he’s strumming on his lute like he hasn’t a care in the world, and Geralt feels his gaze turn soft as he watches Jaskier furrow his brow as he searches for a rhyme he can’t _quite_ grasp.

Ember, the first of many gifts and favors and apologies Geralt had showered him with, huffs in agreement, which breaks Jaskier’s concentration as he squawks at the horses about the importance of word-choice in epic ballads, until he catches Geralt’s eye and falters slightly before realigning his rant so all three of them are included in the ‘uncouth, uneducated, unappreciative minority’ of the population who don’t understand the sacred composition process.

It hadn’t been quick, Jaskier coming back to him fully. It hadn’t been easy, either. But, Geralt thinks to himself, he will gladly toil for eons to prove himself a worthy travelling companion for the bard. His bard.

Hmm.

Jaskier stops to take a breath and Geralt risks leaning into his personal space to place a light kiss on his cheek, there had already been incidents in which riding next to each other had proven slightly dangerous, that earns him a bright smile and sharp comment about how he’s lucky he’s cute when he’s happy.

And dammit Roach, he _is_.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry. I know, I know, my writing is like a fillingless pie but I just- *clenches fist* *dies*
> 
> (Also, I lowkey just forgot about Ciri until this was almost done...so I might add her and update, but I don't really know, like, where? But I'll figure it out)


End file.
